


an ode to garum

by thealienmeme



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 8 glasses of boxed wine drunk, Like, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, aziraphale is nostalgic about food, crowley's love language is acts of service, mentions of ancient rome, ok fun story, so i was drunk when i wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 00:34:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20282461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealienmeme/pseuds/thealienmeme
Summary: Food is always changing - this statement is especially true when you're an immortal being who sees the rise and fall of empires, kingdoms, and cities alike. Aziraphale misses some of that food and Crowley, being ridiculously in love with Aziraphale, listens (whether willingly or not) to the angel recall a certain fish sauce that's gone quite out of style.





	an ode to garum

**Author's Note:**

> hey, guys, i wrote this fic when i was three sheets to the wind on 8 glasses of wine and decided it was good enough to post, so here we are. 
> 
> shoutout to aeron for giving me the prompt of "drunk aziraphale complaining about old dishes that haven't been made for 100s of years"

Some people don’t like fish. Or, rather, some people don’t like fishy flavors. _ Some _ people love fish. Residents of Britain included, being that fish n’ chips was a dish served with such high frequency that you could find a restaurant serving them on every corner. This observation will make sense as our story continues.

Tastes ebb and flow, along with society. Food comes in and out of fashion along with certain ways to wear your hair, your clothes, or speak. It’s a fickle thing, society. 

Aziraphale was begrudgingly aware of this. As a being who has lived through 6,000 years of society, he was _ extremely _ begrudgingly aware of this. 

Which has brought us to the present, where a certain angel and demon are getting extraordinarily drunk a few weeks after the success of stopping the Apocalypse (which really means watching a bunch of 11-year-olds stop the Apocalypse). 

“Oh, I do miss some of the food,” Aziraphale said, dreamily into his wine glass. 

Crowley had brought up some of his favorite memories of Ancient Rome. To Crowley, it signified the first time Aziraphale approached him with kindness - to Aziraphale, it signified a time of great feasts and indulgence in the more sensory pleasures. 

“Of course _ you _ would miss something as insignificant as the food, angel,” Crowley remarked. As annoyed as his words seemed to be, they were spoken with a certain air of fondness that Crowley had let seep out of him at a freer pace lately. 

“It’s not insignificant,” Aziraphale sniffed.

“It is if you don’t eat.” 

At this Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. He could concede to such a statement because he knew Crowley tended to not take part in the finer cuisine available to them throughout the ages, very much unlike Aziraphale. He _ could _ concede. Doesn’t mean he will. 

“You know what I miss most of all?” Aziraphale asked, choosing to ignore Crowley’s statement like he so often did, the stubborn bastard. “Garum.” 

“Garum?” Crowley asked, incredulously. “Really?” 

“Yes, of course, we have other sauces nowadays like ketchup and barbeque and…” At this, Aziraphale scrunched up his nose in a face of disgust. “Soy sauce_. _” 

“Pfffft, what’s wrong with soy sauce? You like soy sauce.” 

“Yes, but it’s not the same!” Aziraphale whined.

Crowley laughed at this. Whether the outburst was caused by him truly thinking the statement to be funny (as soy sauce was nothing if not garum’s modern counterpart) or simply being incredibly drunk or maybe because reminiscing like this with Aziraphale brought about a warm feeling deep within his chest, he didn’t know. 

But he laughed anyway. 

Aziraphale was still looking wistfully off into the distance as if tasting the ghosts of food past on his tongue. Crowley could only wish to be remembered like that. _ Woah _ , Crowley thought. _ Definitely not drunk enough for that line of thinking. _

Crowley had decided long ago that Ancient Rome was where he became aware of these disgusting and gooey feelings he had for his enemy/friend/best friend/angel. He brought it up, now, as they were on their way to rip-roaringly drunk, as a way to egg himself on to finally say something about those feelings. He certainly didn’t think it would lead to them talking about _ food _, but then again, he must have forgotten who he was talking to. 

“And what about garum was so good for you that you still remember it, thousands of years later?” Crowley asked, resting his head on his folded up arms, sounding more sincere than he had intended. 

“The intricacy of it, of course. The flair, the way the Seneca deeply disapproved of such a simple product,” Aziraphale had clearly given this some thought. 

“It was just old fish sauce,” Crowley whispered. 

“Not just ‘any old fish sauce,’ Crowley!” Aziraphale responded as if Crowley had insulted something deeply personal to him. “Garum had a reputation, it had healing powers - it was thought to cure dysentery, you know.” 

“And that’s… _ that’s _why you reminisce about it with such reverence? Because it could cure a few blokes with bowel issues?” Crowley was smirking, now. 

“_ Crowley. _” 

Truth be told, though don’t tell anyone, Crowley sometimes teased Aziraphale to get him to say his name just like that. It was one of his favorite pastimes and had coincidentally _ started _ in Ancient Rome - though both would deny remembering the first time it was uttered. 

“Look, ‘m sorry, Aziraphale, I just don’t see the big idea with thinking on food long gone,” Crowley said, with a shrug. 

“I suppose you’re right, no use dawdling on the past,” Aziraphale said, with a sigh into his now-empty wine glass. 

Crowley recognized that this could be his opportunity to steer the conversation back onto the Road To Admitting Warm and Tender Feelings, but the sad and nostalgic look on Aziraphale’s face gave Crowley a new idea, a new opportunity to share how he really felt with his angel. And what was Crowley, if not an opportunist? 

So, the conversation continued as it had before, and an angel and demon’s bickering continued as it had before, and the world continued turning - as it had before. 

#####

It was a few weeks later when Crowley suggested that Aziraphale join him on a trip. 

“A holiday? I thought you hated holidays. They’re too, what was it, again, dear?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Too ‘jolly,’ was it? Too _ relaxed. _” 

Crowley grumbled something that was most likely a poorly executed excuse (that’s why it was grumbled) and shoved an itinerary into Aziraphale’s lap. 

“Oh,” the angel exclaimed, inspecting the paper before him. “We’re going to Italy?” 

A few days of fussing and three overpacked suitcases later, Aziraphale and Crowley boarded their plane to Naples, Italy. 

Aziraphale was practically vibrating in his seat and it took everything in Crowley to not reach over and stop his seemingly constant motion. 

The ride was mostly free of turbulence and they landed with ease. The exit from the airport went on without a hitch. Whether this was due to some slight demonic influence or not, is up to you, as we all know how airports can be. 

As they arrived at the hotel and started unpacking, Crowley realized that Aziraphale had become tense. 

“Something wrong, angel?” Crowley asked, with a desperate attempt to sound calm. 

“No,” Aziraphale said, steadily.

“Good,” Crowley replied, trying not to sound too nervous or like he was beginning to think this whole trip was a mistake. 

A stomach growl. 

Ah, dinner time. 

Crowley suggested that Aziraphale wear something more fanciful than his usual beige waistcoat and jacket. Aziraphale tried to not look as suspect as he felt of Crowley’s suggestion, unable to help the small bit of suspicion in the back of his head. 

He should’ve known better than to be doubtful of his dearest (and only) friend.

They ended up going to an absolutely, ridiculously elegant restaurant for dinner. When they arrived, it was something straight out of an angel who dreams of going to ridiculous, elegant restaurants often’s dreams. 

“Oh, Crowley, you shouldn’t have!” Aziraphale practically squealed out when they set foot in the foyer of what appeared to be a very expensive dining spot. 

There was a dim, golden glow showering them and the other diners. Elegant marble columns lined the ivy-covered walls, there was a fountain in the center of the room. 

Why, if Aziraphale didn’t know better, he’d say it was positively romantic.

The hostess smiled at the two and lead them to a secluded table off to the side. Aziraphale hadn’t stopped smiling and Crowley couldn’t help but blush at the thought of being the cause of such happiness. 

As they sat and picked up their menus, Crowley cleared his suddenly stuffed throat. 

“You know, Aziraphale,” he started. “I brought you here for a reason.” 

Aziraphale, who had been previously engulfed in the menu, now looked up a Crowley with a question hanging in his eyes. 

“D’ you know what they serve here, angel?” Crowley said, pointedly _ not _ looking at the soft smile that was most certainly pointed in his direction at the moment. “ _ Colatura di alici. _” 

If you found yourself in a fanciful restaurant, here, in the heart of the Campania region of Italy, sitting at a table very close to a, frankly, _ odd _ looking couple of men-appearing figures, you still might not have heard the small gasp that escaped the blonde one’s mouth. 

“_ Crowley. _” 

And there it was, again. Though Crowley has had almost 6,000 years to get used to it, he decidedly would never adjust to the awed, slightly annoyed, tender sound of Aziraphale saying his name. 

“It’s not quite garum, but it’s pretty damn close,” Crowley said, still not looking up from his menu. 

Aziraphale placed his hand over Crowley’s, as if it was as easy as blinking or breathing. 

“It’s perfect, my dear.”

Crowley, visibly relaxing as the pet name flowed from Aziraphale’s heavenly mouth, flipped his hand over and laced their fingers together - easy as breathing. 

  
“Nothing less for you, angel.” 

The rest of the trip went by in a blur - the meal at the restaurant, the fumbling salt-flavored kisses that followed, the giddy giggles between them, the confessions of love, and whispers of promises and unfaltering adoration flowing between these two celestial beings. 

And to think, it all started with the mention of an ancient, fermented fish sauce.


End file.
